John Locke - Bad Doctor

“That’s very interesting.”

“I’ll probably spend that much on your cancer treatment anyway,” I say.

She laughs. “You’re a good sport, Gideon.”

“You too,” I say, and mean it.

Willow says, “You keep looking at your phone.”

“I’m sorry. That’s rude.”

“You should check your messages. I know you’re worried about the little girl.”

“Are you sure?”

She nods.

“Thanks.”

I power up my phone and check for new text messages.

And see this:

REMEMBER WHAT I SAID ABOUT BEST FRIENDS? THE NURSE CAME THROUGH! MEDICAL RECORDS SHOW CAMERON WAS DYING OF HODGKIN’S DISEASE, NOT WILLOW!

“Is something wrong?” Willow says.

I check the next text and see this:

AMY STOLE WILLOW’S IDENTITY AND PRETENDED TO HAVE CAMERON’S DISEASE!

The look on my face tells Willow my mood has turned sour.

“What’s wrong?”

I hand her my phone so she can read the last two text messages. After she does, she takes a deep breath and says, “Okay. Plan B.”

I’m furious. I want to kick and scream and break into someone’s house and rob them at gunpoint. I could probably even strangle Willow with my bare hands.

But I need to know what she’s talking about.

Through clenched teeth I ask, “What’s Plan B?”

“You’re angry,” she says, cool as a cucumber.

“Of course it was Cameron,” I say. “She was practically a scarecrow.”

“It’s not that big a deal. Cameron was sick, but had no credit. As Willow, I had built an excellent credit rating. I let her use Willow’s name and social security number for the credit check. Once it was on the medical records, it stayed there.”

I clench my fists.

“What’s Plan B?”

“I should probably start by explaining Plan A,” she says.

“Please do.”

“Okay, so here’s the thing. Plan A was to come here, make you feel sorry for me, and talk you into giving me a hundred thousand dollars.”

“For cancer treatment.”

“No. I was planning to work on you, get you to take me on a nice vacation. My last one, while I could still enjoy it, you know? Pity for you we didn’t, since I was going to let you seduce me. Plan A called for me falling in love with you. Then I’d refuse the treatment, and…oh well, it doesn’t matter. You had to spoil it all by hiring a private investigator.”

Something crosses my mind. I don’t believe it, but I toss it out anyway.

“You killed Cameron.”

Willow frowns. “What can I tell you, Gideon? Cameron was dying, and wanted to come clean about something we’d done. I couldn’t let her do that.”

“When we were at the hospital she kept mumbling something about needing to confess.”

“She said it after she got shot, too. Before you stitched her up.”

“What did you and Cameron do?”

“None of your business.”

“How’d you kill her?”

“I’m not admitting I did.”

“Her cause of death is being investigated.”

“They won’t look too deeply. She had Hodgkin’s. She’d been gunshot!”

I nod my head. “Bingo!”

“Bingo?”

“Before we took the twins home you went in Maggie’s house to pee.”

“So?”

“I’ve never met a grandmother yet who didn’t have a spice rack with nutmeg in it.”

She smiles. “So?”

“You saw what the nutmeg did when it hit Bobby’s bloodstream. What did you do, inject it in Cameron’s IV somehow?”

“Where on earth would I get a syringe.”

I think about it.

“You stole one from my medical bag when you got it out of the trunk.”

Willow smiles and says, “Let’s don’t dwell on Cameron right now.”

“Okay. What’s Plan B?”

Willow reaches into her handbag and pulls out two zip lock plastic bags and places them on the table in front of me.

What’s inside them is the last thing I would have expected.

Just as she planned.

The plastic bags are identical, as are the contents.

“Two more garage door openers?” I say.

“You can have them,” Willow says, smiling.

“You’ve given me three so far. And none are Kathy’s, right?”

“That’s right.”

“You’ve been playing with me.”

She shrugs.

“You gave me the first one to win my trust.”

“I thought it appropriate.”

“Where’s Kathy’s garage door opener?”

“In a safe place.”

“How can I get it?”

“By paying me a quarter million dollars. Your number, not mine.”

I nod. My fists are no longer clenched. I’m too impressed to be angry.

“It’s nothing to you,” she says. “One operation, right?”

She’s right. A quarter million is nothing to me. The money I make means nothing to me. I’m all alone. No friends, no love. By hiring Dani Ripper I missed out on a fun vacation and lots of sex.

“You’re good,” I say.

“Thanks.”

“How do I know you’ll release the evidence after I pay you?”

“You’ll have my word on it.”

I cough out a derisive laugh. “That’s it?”

“When you give me the cash, I’ll go someplace safe. When I get there, I’ll call and tell you where to pick up the garage door opener.”

“What’s stopping you from never making the call?”

“My promise.”

I shake my head.

She says, “Look, Gideon. I’m not going to soak you. I’ve got nothing left but my future. I would have settled for a hundred grand, but since you were willing to pay more than twice that, I’ll never have to worry about how much more I could have gotten.”

“I wish I had more confidence in your promise.”

“You really have no choice.”

I sigh. “You were willing to go on a trip with me and have sex?”

“I was.”

“Would you still?”

She laughs. “What do you think?”

“I think Plan B sucks. We could’ve had a great trip, you would’ve been happy with a hundred grand, and I would have gotten laid.”

“Such is life.”

“Please?” I say. “It would make me feel a helluva lot better about this.”

“Don’t beg, Gideon.”

“I’m not begging. Remember the advice you gave me? I’m being persistent. If necessary, I’ll be relentless!”

She thinks a minute. Then smiles and says, “I’ll make you a deal.”

“Tell me,” I say.

“I like the idea of this being a civil transaction,” she says.

“Me too.”

“You’ve got a safe in your bedroom closet.”

“No I don’t.”

“It’s built into the floor, under the carpet.”

“I’ll say it again. Damn, you’re good.”

“How much cash is in it?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Rough estimate.”

“Thirty-five.”

“Thousand?”

I nod.

“Wow,” she says. “Okay, so the number’s still two-fifty, but it’ll take time to gather that much cash without raising suspicion.”

“I agree.”

“I’m told the bank won’t report checks you cash for transactions under ten grand.”

“I think that’s right.”

“I’ll take the thirty-five up front and put it in a safe deposit box. You’ll open new accounts at five different banks and write three checks a week for nine thousand each, spread among the different banks. That’s twenty-seven grand. Once a week we’ll go to the track and you’ll piss away up to five thousand dollars. The balance of the money will go in my safe deposit box. When that amount hits a hundred grand, I’ll have sex with you once a week until we hit two-fifty.”

“Really?”

“I think it’s fair.”